About half a block before he reached the marshal’s office, he ducked in between a boot maker’s shop and a meat market, then moved back to the alley. The smell of blood and freshly butchered meat was overpowering, and in the alley, he could hear the loud buzzing of flies as they feasted on the discarded beef entrails and bones.
He saw the marshal’s stable about fifty yards up the alley and, glancing around to make certain he wasn’t seen, moved quickly to it. The top half of the door was open to allow some cooling air for the horses. Matt stepped up to the half-open door and looked into the shadowed interior.
At first, he didn’t see Spirit.
“Spirit,” he called. “Spirit, are you in here, boy?”
He heard Spirit whinny, heard his foot paw at the ground.
“Good boy,” Matt said. “You just be patient for a little while. Once it gets dark, I’ll come get you.”
Matt went out behind the alley, which was actually behind the town, and finding a dry arroyo that ran parallel with the alley, he slipped down into it to wait for darkness.
It was interesting to watch the transition of the town as darkness fell. The sounds of commerce—the ringing of the blacksmith’s hammer, the rattle of wagons and buckboards, the hoofbeats of horses and footfalls of pedestrians, gave way to the sounds of night. He could hear a baby crying, the yap of a dog, the laughter of children, the carping complaint of an angry wife. But soon, even those sounds gave way to the sounds of those who were seeking pleasure. A piano, high and tinny, spilled out the melody to “Buffalo Gals.” A bar girl cackled—a man guffawed loudly. From a whore’s crib, he heard the practiced moans of a prostitute with her customer.
About one hour after full darkness, Matt climbed out of the arroyo and walked quietly, cautiously, up to the marshal’s stable. Opening the bottom half of the door, he moved into the stable, which was partially lit by a silver bar of moonlight that splashed in through the door.
“Spirit?” he called out.
Again, he heard Spirit respond and, heading toward the sound, reached the stall where Spirit was being kept. Stepping inside, he reached out to pat Spirit on the neck. Spirit lowered his head and nuzzled him.
“Did you think I had abandoned you, boy?” Matt asked.
Spirit pawed at the ground.
“I need to find the saddle,” Matt said. Taking a match from his pocket, he lit it by popping it on his fingernail. A little bubble of golden light illuminated the stall sufficiently well for him to see the saddle, which was draped across a sawhorse in the back of the same stall that housed Spirit. Extinguishing the match, Matt got the saddle, and then put it on Spirit, all the time talking quietly and reassuringly to him.
Once Spirit was saddled, Matt led him out of the stable, back across the arroyo. Not until he was on the other side of the arroyo did he climb into the saddle. He rode out into the desert country just to the north of the town of Purgatory. Once again, he was well mounted and free. It was a good feeling, and he knew that the only thing he had to do to put all this behind him was ride back to Colorado.
The instinct to return to Colorado was strong, but he couldn’t get the scene of the little girl, impaled by the bloody stake from the smashed railroad car, out of his mind. As he had passed her broken body to her mother, he had made the decision to go after the men who had caused the wreck. And he wasn’t going to go back on that decision now.
He would take care of that first. Then he planned to come back to Purgatory and clear his name. He wasn’t sure how he would be able to do that, but he did not plan on spending the rest of his life with wanted posters dogging him everywhere he went.
Matt reached down and patted Spirit on the neck. “It’s good to have you back, boy,” he said. “I was getting lonely without my old friend to talk to.”
Spirit whickered, and bobbed his head a couple of times. Matt laughed out loud. “Yes, I know, I know, you’ve heard all my stories. You’re just going to have to hear them again,” he said.
It was mid-morning of the next day when Matt happened onto a remote building. At first he thought it might be a line shack for some ranch, no more substantial did it appear. But as he came closer, he saw that it was a combination store, saloon, and hotel. The sign out front read:
LONESOME CHARLEY’S
Some might wonder how a business so remotely located could possibly survive, but Matt knew that it survived precisely because it was so remote. Any traveler who happened by and needed supplies would have to shop here, as there was no competition.
The building either had never been painted, or was in such need of new paint that no semblance of the old paint remained. The wood was baked gray by the Arizona sun, and the roof over the porch was sagging on one end. There was a wasps’ nest in the joint between the roof and the front of the building. A dog lay sleeping on the porch, so confident in his position that he didn’t even wake up as Matt stepped by him, then pushed open the door to go inside.
The inside of the building was lit by washed-out sunlight that stabbed in through windows that were so covered with dirt that they were nearly opaque. In addition, bars of sunlight stabbed through the wide cracks between the boards illuminating thousands of glowing dust motes. The inside of the building smelled of bacon, flour, and various spices. An old woman was sitting on a chair, smoking a pipe and reading a newspaper. Matt could see the headline on one of the stories.
TRAIN WRECK ON SOUTHERN PACIFIC! MANY DEAD! MANY INJURED!
The woman looked up as Matt entered. “My man will be with you in a moment,” the said. “He’s back in the outhouse.”
“I’m in no hurry,” Matt replied.
Almost before Matt got the words out of his mouth, a white-haired man, wearing an apron, came in through the back door. He was still poking his shirttail down into his pants.
